


Entirely Fine

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Body Dysphoria, Canon-Typical Violence, Case, Established Relationship, F/F, Female John Watson, Femlock, Idiots in Love, MTF Sherlock Holmes, Menstruation, Trans Female Character, Vaginal Sex, regarding the case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-09 18:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20122627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: John grabs Jacoby's left arm and swings it in his back, before slamming his head into the wall. Once. "That's my fucking girlfriend—" Twice. "You fucking dickhead." Thrice. "And that's for calling her a whore." Four times in total, before Sherlock rakes her throat and puts her hand on John's shoulder.





	Entirely Fine

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dream two days ago about MTF trans Sherlock and her girlfriend John, and seeing there wasn't load of trans woman Sherlock in the fandom, I felt the need to write it.  
Please be aware that this is 1. the first time I'm writing a trans woman (although I have files and files of FTM Sherlock and John tucked in my laptop), 2. the first time I'm writing femlock, which also means, 3. the first time I'm writing lesbian sex. Three for one!  
I hope my representation of Sherlock stays respectful of trans women and people in general. If you are a trans person who sees anything wrong with what I have written, please contact me.  
Please don't assume that whatever Sherlock is going through is representative of trans people as a whole. Also, some negative thoughts she may have about her body are hers, and not any opinion of mine about trans people.  
This fic discusses sex, and has a smut scene that includes penis-in-vagina intercourse. Everyone is consenting and happy about having that kind of sex in the fic. This fic also includes body dysmorphia, discussion of menstruation, HRT and bottom surgery. Please be careful if any of these subjects are triggering to you.  
This has not been betaed. Sorry if there are any mistakes left in there, I wrote this in a few hours.

She is lying on the sofa amongst a panoply of magazines — two Nat Geo, the last three issues of _Science_, a pile of the latest spring fashion, a dozen free cream and makeup samples, and a paper on genome editing — head thrown back, messy bun barely holding in place, when she hears John jumping up the stairs two by two. There is still a slight stench of burn coming from the kitchen.

Sherlock was not aware she had gone out.

Her perfectly manicured fingers still over the violin she is blindly holding, and she shifts slightly to rearrange the blue dressing gown wrapped around her body. Her bare feet press into the cushion. She opens one eye to witness John stomping on the threshold.

"Emergency," John grumbles, throwing her coat to the ground as she strides across the living room, not taking the time to greet Sherlock properly.

Sherlock closes her eyes again, the imprint of John's body, every detail included, on the back of her eyelids. Leather jacket, but tee-shirt with a round collar underneath — she has been to the pub, but not with the intention of impressing anyone. Out with Lestrade, then. The bulk of her wallet in her jean's pocket, since she never bothers with a purse, but nothing in her back pockets either. Terrible mistake. Even Sherlock had known. There were always prior signs, with John. Anyway. The pub had clearly been closer to the flat, a better option than going to the pharmacy in a hurry and finding a bathroom after that.

"_Sherlock_!" comes the inevitable cry she had prepared for, making her shoulder tense nonetheless. "What the _hell _have you done with my tampons?"

"Experiment on absorbing proprieties," she says.

"_All _of them?" John cries out, storming out of the bathroom. She goes over to the kitchen, evidently checking on what is left of that exact experiment.

Sherlock hums in the affirmative. Not _all_ of them, not really, but she had burned the rest, not that it had been part of the experiment. More like part of her sudden resentment for the stupid little box full of stupid little cotton sticks.

John steps into the living room, and Sherlock can imagine her perfectly, with her fists on her hips and her deadly glare. "What about my pads?"

Sherlock shifts on the sofa. "I believe I might have used the last. Ask Mrs Hudson."

She can hear John breathing in, and out. "Mrs Hudson is _seventy-six_, Sherlock." A pause. "You know what? I need some air."

The door slams closed. John's footsteps echo down the staircase.

Sherlock sets the violin on the coffee table, before she turns on her side, facing the back of the couch. Her hands tighten around her sides, grabbing the fabric of her dressing gown. The movement makes her skin chafe against the useless pad glued to her knickers. The last one in the flat.

***

When John comes back, minutes later or maybe hours (most certainly hours because the sun has already set), she sits down on the sofa and peppers Sherlock with kisses.

"I ruined my favourite knickers," she grumbles, although without resentment. "You really need to start writing down your period on the calendar, babe. So I can buy enough for us both, okay?"

Sherlock nods, and lets herself be drawn into a tight embrace, half-sitting on the old leather cushions.

It is highly irrational, all of this. Sherlock knows John absolutely despise getting her period, but Sherlock would do anything to have hers.

It's not like putting a pad down her knickers for five days every twenty-one days is going to make a difference. She knows that. She rationally _knows_ that. It's horrible for her skin, and it sometimes shows when she's wearing tight trousers, not to say anything about the environment and the products she is wasting away.

It doesn't feel like a waste to her, though. Not to John as well. John, who always has the right words, the right reactions. John, who sometimes get angry at her, but whose sulks never last. John, who always puts up with her eccentricities. John, who understands that there are some things one can only be irrational about.

She's her balance in life.

Sherlock presses her lips to John's neck, suddenly aware of their proximity. Of her small, sensitive breasts against John's generous chest. She slips a hand down John's body, inserts her fingers in the band of her trousers.

She looks up to John's face, pupils blown in the dark.

"Cup?" she asks, because John has not come back with any bags at all.

"Yes."

She kisses her on the mouth, her precise fingers finding the exact spot where John is warm and wet.

***

The situation would have been entirely avoided if she had not been wearing heels, and if Anderson had not been a complete cock in the first place. Technically, the heels were part of her disguise, although she absolutely loves wearing them (to John's usual dismay — "You look absolutely killer in these, babe, but it makes me feel like a hobbit when I stand beside you." But in time, she had grown fond of them as well, just for the confidence they usually inspire in Sherlock's body and mind.) Even though she walks in five-inch heels as though she has been born in them, running is another thing, especially when someone is firing a gun at her. 

They would not have been in this situation in the first place without Anderson, who had been his usual heterosexual cismale chauvinist moronic self and tried to shove out both Miss Holmes and Dr Watson off the crime scene before Lestrade could intervene and reprimand him. The hour it took was one hour lost on Sherlock's quick and precise deductions, and in the end, they arrived late at the scene where a money exchange had to take place. Jacoby, confused with the appearance of both the actual lady he was supposed to meet, and Sherlock disguised, had raised a gun at the latter.

John had fired a shot that clipped Jacoby's arm (she rarely missed, after all), and Jacoby had reciprocated by wildly missing Sherlock by a good meter.

Which had led to a pursuit in East End's alleyways.

Sherlock is currently waiting behind a corner, her quick mind calculating the distance between Jacoby's footsteps, and how hard she needs to hit him to take out that dodgy knee of his. Without waiting for an answer, she swiftly takes off one of her heels, the cold pavement burning her bare foot. Jacoby's whistling breathing nearing, she does not wait for him to discover her before she leaps from behind the building, and stabs him with the heel right between two ribs.

"You fucking— whore!" he cries out, as he grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks.

She yelps, but shoves her knee right where it counts, her hands blindly clawing at Jacoby's chest, his neck.

Jacoby stumbles back, not letting go of her, and it's right at that moment when Sherlock hears a distinct, "Back off, you fucker."

John grabs Jacoby's left arm and swings it in his back, before slamming his head into the wall. Once. "That's my fucking girlfriend—" Twice. "You fucking _dickhead_." Thrice. "And that's for calling her a whore." Four times in total, before Sherlock rakes her throat and puts her hand on John's shoulder.

"John." She glances at the end of the street and at the two lights of the police car incoming. Without a word, she slips John a pair of handcuffs, and John forcefully binds their (very guilty) suspect, who is in no state to resist anymore. Sherlock bends down to pick her heel again, and slips it back on her foot.

"I'll take it from here, John," Lestrade finally steps in, closing his car's door. "You all right?" he asks Sherlock, eyes on her messy hair.

John clears her throat, eyes still on Jacoby, and Sherlock knows she would like him to get better acquainted with the wall a few times still. "Ta," she finally says, handing him over to Lestrade.

The moment her hands are free, John steps over to Sherlock. Her thumb sweeps over Sherlock's forehead, and comes back red. She was not aware she was bleeding. "This needs disinfecting, babe," she says, not minding that Lestrade can perfectly hear them.

"I'm fine," Sherlock grumbles. "Lestrade," she adds, her eyes not leaving John's face. "You might want to ask him about the Williams case as well."

"Really?" Lestrade might be exhausted, but he still manages to sound surprise. "Will do. Get some sleep, you two, will you? I'm expecting you both at NSY tomorrow, eleven, all right?"

Paperwork. Damn. Sherlock had other plans in mind.

She hums a vague answer, but she is already moving down towards the main road, John on her heels.

***

Sex, like most things for Sherlock, is complicated.

Sex puts emphasis on the regions she would rather forget about. Sex makes her feel aware of her body in ways she does not specifically like. Sex makes her blood pool between her legs, shamefully waking that part of herself that should never have belonged to her body in the first place.

Sometimes, sex with John is a disaster.

Sometimes, sex with John feels like a locked-room case: like heaven on Earth, in short.

They have tried mostly everything. They have their personal favourites (Sherlock loves to go down on John, and in turn, John could die with her face mashed between her girlfriend's butt cheeks), their shared favourites (Sherlock loves fingering John, John loves anything that has to do with Sherlock, when Sherlock is in the mood), and their dislikes (John never likes when Sherlock stops too long on her scar, Sherlock is unable to let John go down on her — they tried once, and it was an absolute disaster, making her too self-conscious about parts of her that should not fill so much of John's mouth).

John is not very picky when it comes to sex. She wants for Sherlock to enjoy herself, and if Sherlock does most of the time, the times she climaxes are few and far in between.

She knows — rationally — that John would like for her to come every time, because John usually does and she feels it's a bit unfair otherwise. But John has learned a long time ago that as much as she would like for Sherlock to let go, it's not an easy thing and she often feels better in her skin when she does not.

Sherlock, in turn, might not like everything about herself, but she likes everything about John.

Especially on days like this, when she nearly takes the brains out of the suspect they were after.

Sherlock stumbles on the bed over her, her hands reaching for the hem of her jumper. John is a study in contrasts. John is soft skin, creamy jumpers and generous thighs when she flops down on the sofa, or in bed. When they go out on a case, just like they did tonight, John is leather jacket, taut muscles, military training and gun in her back pocket.

"Oh God, babe," John mumbles in her mouth, her quick fingers unbuttoning the front of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock's skin might be on fire. The bleeding of her forehead is forgotten. Pain is nonexistent. There is only John.

John is already unclasping her bra with a single hand, her other on Sherlock's waist. Sherlock quickly takes the entire thing off, and throws it in a corner of the room. A shot of arousal goes through her body as John cups one of her breasts, as if they were the holiest thing on this Earth.

"God, I love your tits," John mumbles, before pressing down her lips, her tongue, to Sherlock's nipple.

Sherlock moans as she crowds John with her body, needing John to take more and more of her sensitive skin. If there is something she enjoys without shame, without filter, it's this. She's proud of her breasts, even though she would like them to be bigger ("You really don't, babe, I always get back pain from them, and then no one ever looks you in the face."), but small miracles can be achieved with the right push-up bra. And when she's naked, she could not care less, because she's always with John, and John loves everything about her. She only wishes she could, too.

Before she forgets herself, she pulls away from John to finally divest her from her jumper, and tugs her black sports bra over her head. John kisses her, and Sherlock gently pushes her down on the bed, burying her head between John's breasts, letting John pet her hair as she travels her hands down to John's trousers, pulling them down to her thighs.

It's always like that, after a case, especially one that might have known a deadly end. Her brain is firing one hundred ideas at the time, analysing every piece of information in quick deducing sparks. Sherlock can barely breathe.

"Give me a moment, babe," John chuckles. She stops everything, time included, to sit up and drop her trousers to the floor. Sherlock's follow.

For a moment, it's knickers-to-knickers, and Sherlock lets herself rub against the wet spot forming on John's white underwear, before she travels down her body to pull them off completely.

God, she loves this. She loves John's thighs, the stretch marks embedded on each side, how the muscles contracts against her ears when she licks her just the way she likes. She loves John's curves, John's rolls of her belly when she sits down, John's breasts, John's square shoulders and the scar that brought her home. She loves everything about John and John herself. She could get lost loving John, except that loving John is one of the few things that guides her through this world.

John moans as Sherlock kisses her swollen clit, tasting her with the tip of her tongue, before travelling her lips across the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

"Wait, wait," John breathes out, and Sherlock crawls up her body again, because she knows what John wants, and what she wants, and eating John out is not exactly it for tonight. "What do you want?" John asks, her fingers carding through Sherlock's long hair, sweeping them off her shoulders and unto her back.

"To be close."

John swallows, and kisses her. To be close always means the same and only thing, something they do not do very often but only when they are left after cases still full of adrenaline. More often than not, it's John who fucks Sherlock, and Sherlock enjoys it tremendously. Not tonight. No, tonight is for something else.

Oh God, she wants it. A part of her brain unhelpfully provides her with the fact that she should be ashamed for wanting something she usually cannot stand, but she is too aroused to think. She pushes the voice away — a part of her always struggles with accepting the fact that maybe she did not want it yesterday, maybe she will hate it tomorrow, but it is perfectly fine to want it today. Nothing has to be black and white. It is seldom, with her relationship to her body.

John rolls on the bed, giving Sherlock full view of her arse, and retrieves a condom from the closest drawer.

They always use condoms — Sherlock does not like the mess, and John doesn't mind.

"Here," John says, ripping it open.

Too aroused, too high on adrenaline to be self-conscious at this stage, Sherlock drops her padded knickers and lets John roll down the condom on her.

"Sure?" John asks, like she always does, but Sherlock is already kissing her, pushing down on the bed and moving between her legs.

She takes herself in hand for the moment it takes her to breach John, and pushes in with one swift motion. John moans, her head falling back, and even Sherlock can't help but pant her name, her hands on John's thighs, her waist, her breasts, caressing every single inch of skin she can reach.

She thrusts forward, shy little things, her eyes on John's face. She spent hours convincing herself it's like wearing a strap — lesbians have sex like that all the time, after all, why should this be any different?

Yet it is different, and some nights, unbearably so. Tonight, not at all. Tonight, her body fills John. She wanted them to be close, and close they are. Tonight, it feels like heaven on Earth. Better even than all the locked-room cases in London.

She stops, her lips finding John's, before pressing her face in John's neck. "John," she moans, a demand, and John chuckles in return.

"You're _such_ a bottom, babe."

"That's entirely false," Sherlock pouts, but John is already turning them over. Except that it is true. Well, most of the time.

She watches, lying on her back, as John lowers herself on her lap again, warmth enveloping her. Sherlock breathes, hard, and watches as John sets a slow pace between them, hypnotised by the roll of her hips.

John reaches for Sherlock, for her neck and then for her chest, squeezing the barest hill of a breast, rolling the hardened nipple under her fingertips. Sherlock squirms under her, lifts her hips, meets her thrust for thrust as John starts riding her hard.

"You're beautiful," John lets out, with so much sincerity it hurts in all of the good ways. "Fuck, you're so pretty, babe."

On impulse, Sherlock pushes herself on her elbows, and then sits up, John's arms coming around her shoulders. She takes her by the waist, slowing down their coupling until they stop moving but for John's little needy thrashes. They kiss, mouths open, breaths mingling, breasts rubbing together like Sherlock likes best.

"You were so bloody clever today," John whispers, as she starts fucking her again, evidently pursuing her pleasure this time. "You were so bloody clever that you made me wet in a middle of a crime scene, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock moans, her hips accompanying John, her hands holding her close.

"I was dripping everywhere because you knew, you knew everyone else was bloody wrong, and I just wanted to take you in the nearest alleyway and have my way with you. God, oh, Sherlock!"

Sherlock slips down her hand to John's clit, tracing little circles, watching as John throws her head back and presses into Sherlock's hand, the whole bed racketing against the wall in time with her thrusts.

"Fuck, oh— Sherlock!" John yells, on the exact same note she always does when she's coming.

Sherlock can feel her. Sherlock feels how she contracts around her, how she's climaxing from the pleasure she is providing her. She lets her have a moment to come down, but John's thrusts barely stop.

"Come on," she whispers to her ear. "Come on, come for me, babe."

"I love you," Sherlock answers, her voice tight, the first words she has spoken in minutes.

"Oh God, I love you too, you mad woman, with your deductions and your clever mind," John chuckles. Her body is lax against Sherlock, who is picking up the pace, suddenly in charge of her own pleasure.

"Tell me."

"Oh, but you know already," John teases. "You're the cleverest, Sherlock, you're a fucking genius and you make me fucking wet every time you look at me."

"John—"

"Yeah, I know, babe, we're fucking good, aren't we? Come on, you're there— you're there, babe, come for me."

She does, her face in John's neck, she comes with her name on her lips, John's hands petting her back, and it seems like it is never going to end.

When she has calmed down enough, John kisses her one last time before slipping off her, taking the condom off a second later.

Sherlock rolls on the bed, reaching for her knickers she puts back on. John, in her back, lifts the duvet and ushers her in. Like most nights, Sherlock presents her back to John, who slips behind her as the big spoon ("Never mind that you're a head taller than me," she always teases her), wraps an arm around Sherlock's body, and gently tucks her hand between Sherlock's right breast and the mattress.

But then, Sherlock thinks with a smile, John's always been kind of unhealthily obsessed about them.

***

Sherlock stares at the number written down on the yellow Post-it.

John is somewhere, not in 221b, that much is evident. Maybe at the clinic. Is she still working there? It's Monday, after all, just after past three. Does John work on Mondays?

She frowns, not exactly remembering. Not that it matters. This is something she has to do alone.

Something that has been on her mind for the past few weeks. No, for the past few months, at least, since John and her started being… an item. If she doesn't fool herself, it has been on her mind in the past thirty-three years of her life. Since the day she was born, since the moment the doctor looked between her legs and assigned her with something she did not want anything to do in the first place.

It's been years of hell, years of short hair and restrictions on what kind of clothes she could wear. Years of slurs, not even the right ones, for being effeminate. Years of wondering if she likes girls because she wants to be one, or because she wants to be _with_ one. More years to figure out that the two can coexist. Months in alleyways, months of clean needles and less clean substances. Weeks at rehab. Weeks of therapy. A single moment to convince all of NSY — Greg Lestrade — that she was worth something and that they needed her, years after she was convinced that nobody ever would, ever again. Years of HRT, waiting to be taken. To transform. The world shifted slowly.

And then, John.

Not all of it was bad, she told John yesterday, as they were lying in the bath, bubbles up to their chins. She remembers the first time she took her hormones. The first time she tried to put on a bra. The first mishaps with makeup. How she nearly broke an ankle wearing heels outside for the first time. Her first skirt. Her first dress. Her first set of lingerie, although she did not have John to impress at the time. The first time she painted her nails. The first time she bought a bathing suit, although she would never set foot at a public pool ever again in her life.

John had listened, her soft hand in Sherlock's hair. She listened as Sherlock told her how she'd made up her mind, how she was going to call that doctor John knew, how she is going to ask for Mycroft to arrange the paperwork.

And now she is staring at the number, even though she has John's blessings (not that she needed them in the first place, but maybe the reassurance wasn't so bad), and she is hesitating.

God knows how many times she came close to chop it off herself. Why is she hesitating _now_?

A silly, irrational voice tells her that maybe should she proceed, John would miss the moments when they can be _close_. It's stupid, really, because John has never said anything like that, and John wants above all for Sherlock to be happy and comfortable in her own skin.

John has told her, again and again, how she did not need that surgery to be "complete", how she was wholly herself whatever her body might look like, but that if she wanted to, if she felt too wrong in her body, John would go to the ends of the Earth, meet with every single doctor in England to be sure she would receive the best treatment. ("It's all fine," she always says, "whatever you want, we'll do it.")

Sherlock, yesterday, had asked John for that one number, and John had given it to her, not before wrapping her hands around her middle and kissing her soundly as water sloshed around them.

This way, Sherlock reasons, they can be _close_ more often. She will be able to feel John's fingers inside her. John's strap-on, and not only for anal. She will be able to wear one herself, for nights they will want to be_ close_ that way around, but never, ever feel the need to claw out of her skin again.

She knows, she knows that some people like her deal perfectly well with what they have been born with. That dysphoria is not generalised that some women like her can have plenty of sex in all the ways they want.

But not her. Not most of the time, anyway.

And it is not a question of being weak. It is not a question of anything but of how one feels in one's body. Entirely irrational. Entirely fine.

She wants this.

Excitement builds, replacing hesitation. She whips her phone out of her pocket, and composes the number.

***

When she wakes up, it is to the confusing sight of a hospital ceiling.

She frowns, trying to collect her memories, to understand why she is here, and why she feels inexplicable relief in her bones.

Where is John? Is John all right?

She turns her head, and sees her, by the window, shoulders squared like the soldier she is.

She tries to say her name, but only a weak moan comes out.

"Sherlock!"

John is by her side, her hand in hers.

"How are you feeling?"

The lights are blinding her. She squeezes her eyes shut, before nodding. Oh God, she's high.

Morphine? Yep. Morphine.

And then, she remembers.

Tears well in her eyes. She never cries. Maybe today she will. Oh God, she's very high.

"John."

"I'm here, I'm here. Everything went well, babe, you'll be able to take a look in a few."

Sherlock smiles. Then, chuckles.

"What?" John asks, slightly panicked.

Sherlock waves at her, to come closer.

John leans in, concerned.

"John…" Sherlock whispers. "It's a girl."

She laughs. John laughs until she cries.

Entirely irrational.

Entirely fine.


End file.
